Hope in the Bottom of the Trash Can

I didn’t think I had a problem. Weed wasn’t heroin. It wasn’t booze. I had a job, paid my rent, showed up on time. So what if I lit up every night? Everyone needs a way to unwind, right?

Except it wasn’t just nights. It was mornings. Lunch breaks. And then one day, standing in front of a half-finished work presentation, my brain was fogged out and empty. I stared at the screen like it had betrayed me. That was the first time I thought: maybe this isn’t under control.

So I went home, dumped everything — weed, papers, lighters — into a garbage bag. Felt righteous about it. Like, yeah, I’m finally done. A few hours later, I was on my knees, ripping through that same garbage bag looking for a crumb to smoke. That was the moment. The rock-bottom gut punch. I couldn’t do it alone.

That night, I walked into a peer group. I hated every second of it at first. My skin crawled with embarrassment. I thought I’d walked into some pity party for people I swore I wasn’t like. But then someone cracked a joke about “stoner logic,” and the room erupted in laughter. They weren’t sad and broken. They were… real. Smart. Sarcastic. People who knew exactly what it felt like to dig through a trash bag for something you swore you’d quit.

Now, months later, those “strangers” are my closest friends. We roast each other, share dumb memes, celebrate small wins. And weirdly enough, I look forward to meetings.

Work’s a whole different story too. I’m sharp again. Present. Last week I nailed a presentation I’d been dreading — and instead of celebrating with a blunt, I celebrated with my group.

Turns out, the thing I was most embarrassed about — walking into that room — is the thing that saved me.